Birds of the Nile

by N E. David

  The room itself had hardly been touched. They’d been looking for the man and not evidence of his presence so there’d been no pulling out of drawers or rifling through belongings, and it was only that the bathroom and wardrobe doors had been left open that betrayed their search. That, and the opened window and net curtains left shivering in the breeze…

  While he was arranging repair of the lock, Blake made a discovery – although his own things had not been disturbed, Reda’s old room had been trashed.

  According to the purser, nothing much had been spared. It seemed that if they couldn’t find him, the alternative was to obliterate all trace.

  At breakfast, the dining room was awash with speculation. Opinion ranged from the belief there was a jihadist on board with a bomb (this from the self-same lady who’d predicted they’d be murdered in their beds) to the idea that the police were hunting a gang of international diamond smugglers. Surprisingly little mention was made of Reda and as far as the others were concerned, he’d already been forgotten and had passed into history.

  Blake found it hard to contain his amusement at these wild stories. So too did Mrs Biltmore. While Lee Yong and Ira remained expressionless and stared solemnly down at their plates, she allowed herself the widest of smiles and spent the whole meal grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Blake stared vacantly out of the tour bus window. Across the Corniche, a street vendor had set up a mobile stall and had been trying to attract the passers-by with an array of trinkets and fake jewellery. He’d been suffering a marked lack of success. Before long the police had arrived and after the usual heated debate and exchange of profanities, the vendor had moved off. He would no doubt return once the police had disappeared. It was an age-old game – and one that would continue to be played for many years to come, revolution or not. In this country, thought Blake, nothing ever really changed.

  He’d sat there waiting a full ten minutes, the bus engine rumbling beneath his feet, the front entrance folded open ready to receive the last of the passengers to board. Other than watch the antics of the police and the street vendor, he’d attempted to pass the time by imagining how Mrs Biltmore and Lee Yong had succeeded in moving Reda from one room to another so quickly. Someone must have been alert. Could it all have been purely spontaneous? Or had they cooked up a plan in advance? In the rush to get ready there’d been little occasion to talk and he’d yet to hear the full story. All he’d been told was that Reda was fine and for the time being he was to stay in Mrs Biltmore’s room – the risk of moving him again was too great.

  Blake wondered how Reda’s ankle was holding up. However hard he tried, the thought of the young Egyptian hobbling across the corridor with Lee Yong on one side and Mrs Biltmore on the other didn’t seem to gel. But somehow they’d managed it and Blake was eternally grateful – their prompt action had got him off the hook. Not only had Reda been kept safe while he’d been on the sun-deck panicking, but his sudden disappearance had absolved Blake from the duty of ‘speaking’ to him. It was one less worry to start the day, although the problem of what to do with him still remained. Reda couldn’t stay where he was indefinitely and at some point within the next twenty-four hours he would need to have gone.

  A sharp puff of compressed air told him that the last of the passengers was now on board. David had been growing impatient. In conjunction with Keith he’d gone to some lengths to organise their outing and was sitting a couple of seats further forward.

  “About time!” he called out.

  A few days earlier, on the trip to Aglika and the Temple of Isis, it had been Blake who’d been late and had to apologise. When it came to the matter of punctuality, the British were an unforgiving lot. The bus gave a jolt and moved off into the morning light.

  On the other side of the Corniche, the persistent vendor of trinkets had returned and set up his stall once more.

  They were soon driving through the centre of Luxor. Known to the Greeks as the ancient city of Thebes, its modern name was derived from the Arabic, El-Uqsur, meaning ‘the palaces’. And what palaces they were, great monuments to history that defined a whole civilisation.

  In a sense they were coming home. This was the point they’d set out from some six days before. Then, their early morning trip had been to the west bank, the Temple of Queen Hatshepsut and the Valley of the Kings. Now they were staying on the east bank and were travelling to the religious complex at Karnak.

  In one of her derisive moments, Joan had described Philae as ‘just another pile of stones’. The same could hardly be said of Karnak – or at least, if it was, then they were some of the most famous stones in the world. Covering half a square kilometre in size and 1300 years in time (Blake had taken his guide book down to breakfast and had digested part of it along with his scrambled egg) it was the largest complex of its kind in existence. It could not be ignored and for many it would be the highlight of their trip. No wonder David was making such an effort.

  But try as he might, Blake could not bring himself to share his enthusiasm. Perhaps he was tired after a long week, perhaps it was the effect of recent events (the problem of Reda was still hanging over their heads), but for whatever reason he couldn’t generate the same level of interest. Karnak was important, and although it ranked amongst the most renowned, there were other sites of equal, if not greater, significance – the Monastery at Petra, the Blue Mosque in Istanbul, the city of Jerusalem itself – all these were places Blake had visited at one time or another during his service at the Embassy. He’d once thought them exciting but over the years their sense of mystery had faded and for the moment he could not convince himself that Karnak would be any different.

  Outside the bus, the long façade of the Winter Palace Hotel slid by, dark against the rising sun. Soon it would grow unbearably hot, and he baulked at the thought of toiling through sprawling archaeological remains in the searing heat. He pushed his new pair of sunglasses tight to his face and patted the bottle of water in his pocket. At least he was well prepared – there was no chance of a headache today.

  He arrived at the site determined to speak with Lee Yong at the first opportunity. As for the archaeology, he already knew the history and as much as he might denigrate Joan, for him it really was ‘just another pile of stones’. After the disruption of the past few days, he was no longer in ‘birding’ mode either and although his binoculars were a permanent feature, he’d elected not to bring his telescope. It was hardly a habitat in which he could expect to see a great deal, but he’d no sooner descended from the bus than he became aware of a familiar outline perched on the railings next to the ticket office.

  Little Green Bee-Eater.

  His heart skipped a beat and he would dearly have loved to stop and admire the colours, but with the stand-in guide’s introductory talk due to take place at any moment, he dared not linger. Lurking at the back of his mind was the thought of Lee Yong’s admonition.

  What are you doing, Mr Blake? You’re for ever lagging behind…

  Fortunately, the bird flew with them and alighted in a tree conveniently situated behind the tour guide’s adopted position so rather than having to look round for it, it was always in view. And as luck would have it, Lee Yong was also in front of him so the thought that he might offend her as he’d done at Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple did not arise. Knowing he could safely ignore the tour guide and watch the bird, a pleasant five minutes ensued. It was an auspicious start to the visit.

  He need not have feared Lee Yong’s intervention. She too was ignoring the tour guide and was engaged in earnest conversation with Mrs Biltmore. Decked out in her perennial attire of shapeless green top and white floppy hat, the American had sufficiently recovered from her previous exertions to risk another day out and had lathered herself with sun-cream. As the guide’s speech ended, she and Lee Yong linked arms and sauntered off toward the entrance, sharing the shade of the young Malaysian’s black parasol. Ira’s position as permanent consort to his wife
was currently redundant and he followed studiously behind. Blake fell in with him, primarily out of politeness rather than anything else – it wasn’t as if Ira would want to talk.

  As soon as they were out of sight of the main party, Blake sought to split the two women apart and tapped Lee Yong on the shoulder.

  “We need to talk.”

  “We do?” She lowered her parasol to look at him, apparently surprised at the interruption.

  “I think so.”

  “Alone?”

  Blake glanced round at Mrs Biltmore whose face was still wreathed in its Cheshire cat-like smile.

  “Well, no, I suppose not. We’re all in this together now.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “There’s a café overlooking the Sacred Lake.” If nothing else, the few moments he’d spent with his guidebook had at least taught him that. “Why don’t we go and get a drink or something? We should be able to sit in comfort there.”

  “Very well.”

  It was less than a ten-minute walk to the café but by the time they arrived, Mrs Biltmore was already exhausted in the heat of the blazing sun and sank down onto a waiting bench beneath a large umbrella.

  “Oh my!” she complained, removing her floppy hat and vigorously fanning her face. “I just don’t think this country was designed for a body like mine!”

  Blake ordered a round of mint tea and sat down to confer with his impromptu council of war.

  His first question concerned Reda’s state of health. As Mrs Biltmore had confidently predicted, the ankle which had so worried Blake was much improved to the point where the young Egyptian could walk unaided. So rather than the awkward scene Blake had imagined, Reda had managed to scuttle across the corridor under his own steam just in the nick of time, the door of Mrs Biltmore’s cabin barely closing behind him before Rasheed’s men had appeared at one end of the passageway and Blake at the other.

  “And how is he in himself?” asked Blake.

  “Why, he’s just like a cat on a hot tin roof.” Mrs Biltmore had cooled off in the shade of the large umbrella and was sufficiently refreshed to speak. “Pacing up and down the whole time – that boy just won’t sit still! I told him he needs more rest but he won’t have it. Goodness only knows what we’re going to do with him.”

  “Exactly,” said Blake. “What are we going to do with him? By this time tomorrow we’ll all be at the airport and we can’t just leave him.”

  “We were all rather hoping you’d come up with something, Mr Blake.”

  It was Lee Yong’s first contribution to the conversation. Ira, of course, had so far said nothing and remained completely intractable.

  “Hmm…” Blake felt flattered by her confidence in him but was worried that it might be misplaced. Keith was the one to look to in these situations…“Well I certainly wouldn’t want to be doing anything in daylight. If we’re to get him off safely, our best chance is under the cover of darkness. And if all else fails, we could always dress him up again and try smuggling him aboard the bus in the morning – although I for one wouldn’t want to leave it that late.”

  “What about the police? What will happen if they show up again?”

  “It’s a risk we’ll have to take.” Blake’s thoughts went back to the billowing net curtains and open window in Lee Yong’s room. “And if push comes to shove, he’ll just have to swim for it, I suppose…”

  They talked around the options for another half an hour, weighing the pros and cons. Eventually, they resolved to meet in Mrs Biltmore’s room at midnight and depending on the lie of the land, come to their final conclusion. In the absence of a viable alternative, it seemed the best they could do.

  It was a temporary postponement, but the prospect of a definite course of action lifted whatever load had been pressing on Blake’s shoulders and for the first time that day, he felt a sense of relief. Lee Yong too appeared less anxious and with the discussion about Reda at an end, the conversation turned to their surroundings. She expressed regret that in their hurry to get to the café, they’d bypassed the splendours of the Hypostyle Hall. It was one of the features she’d been hoping to see and after she’d finished her tea, she announced her intention of going back to study it in more detail. She looked to Mrs Biltmore but despite her extended rest, the American professed herself incapable of accompanying her.

  “Why, honey, I don’t think I could manage another step. Mr Blake’s right here – I’m sure he’d be happy to take you.”

  With nothing else in view, Blake was pleased to volunteer and leaving Mrs Biltmore to bemoan her enfeebled condition to Ira, he and the young Malaysian set off back toward the Hall.

  According to the guide book it was no more than halfway back to the entrance, although by now the crowds had grown to slow their progress. Temporarily deprived of her companion, Blake half expected Lee Yong to revert to the subdued state of melancholy she’d been in since Reda’s arrest. But the hour or so at the café and its positive outcome appeared to have heartened her, there was a spring in her step and her old eagerness to explore seemed to have returned. It was as if she’d rediscovered herself after the traumas of the week and rather than dwell on the problems of the present, the prospect of a future had opened up before her. She still looked tired and it would take a while to recover the freshness, but for the moment there were no more tears and from time to time there was a smile to rejoice in.

  Once inside the Hypostyle Hall, Lee Yong took photographs of anything and everything she could find. Nothing escaped her. Blake thought himself safe amongst the gigantic pillars, but even he found himself a target. He grinned willingly for her camera. For once there were no birds to observe, but in the company of Lee Yong he’d no need of them and the next hour was possibly his happiest of the week.

  But it was soon over and with Lee Yong’s appetite for photography sated, they returned to the café to rejoin Mrs Biltmore and Ira. It was approaching twelve-thirty and having had nothing more than the mint tea to sustain them since breakfast, they decided to take lunch. Another pleasant hour followed and with the aid of a glass or two of wine, Blake grew quite relaxed. The steady hum of conversation dulled his senses, a group of red-breasted Egyptian Swallows flitted obligingly above their heads and by the time they gathered in the Processional Way at half past two for the bus, he was in a mellow mood.

  He must have dozed off on the return journey as he missed the Winter Palace Hotel and arrived back at the ship desperate for a nap. His intention was to escort Lee Yong and the Biltmores to their rooms and then go straight to his own, but a surprise was awaiting them which would jerk him out of his torpor – Reda had gone missing. He’d hardly deposited the Americans at their door when Mrs Biltmore rushed back out to report that he was no longer in her cabin. Rather than wait for their assistance, it seemed he’d taken matters into his own hands and had vanished without trace, taking whatever belongings he had with him. There was no sign of a break-in or the police and as to his whereabouts, no-one seemed to know. With all the plans they’d spent so much time debating confounded, Blake was stumped as to what to suggest.

  “Now what do we do?”

  Mrs Biltmore was of no help. Slowly shaking her head, her “Now isn’t that the darnedest thing?” was as much as she could muster.

  And with Ira his normal dumb and muted self, they all looked to Lee Yong for a reaction.

  Strangely enough, she did not seem perturbed and maintained the same aura of untroubled calm she’d acquired earlier in the day as though this latest setback could not upset her.

  “You don’t seem worried,” said Blake, noting her mood.

  “I’m not, Mr Blake. Reda knows what he’s doing. I’m sure he’s found somewhere safe to hide. He still has his mobile phone remember and we’ve all got his number. Let me try and contact him. If it’s at all possible to find him, I will, I can promise you that.”

  Her offer was delivered with conviction and it persuaded them to leave it in her hands. With no other option in pros
pect, there seemed little else they could do.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  It was another quarter of an hour before Blake got back to his cabin. As he turned the corner and headed down the corridor, he noticed the edge of a white envelope protruding from beneath his door. While he’d been away, something had been delivered. It was an invitation, printed on white card with a gold border.

  Worldwide Travel

  Request the pleasure of your company

  At a Grand Reception

  To be held at Luxor Temple

  8.30pm Friday 28th January

  It was more of a reminder, since the event itself had been part of the tour from the outset. Although with the changes forced on them by the revolution, it could well have been cancelled had it not been for David’s persistence over the Karnak visit. It was intended to be their farewell party before departing the following day, their opportunity to bid each other goodbye amidst the splendour of one of Egypt’s finest monuments. Such events were normally discussed over breakfast, but the early morning visit by the police had taken precedence and forced it off the agenda. It had consequently slipped his mind.

  He recalled that the subject had been raised at dinner the night before, but he’d been so preoccupied with Lee Yong’s request to talk that he’d failed to pay much attention. As far as he could remember, the schedule David had outlined was to be much the same as for the Egyptian evening – they would take an early meal, allow half an hour to prepare themselves and be ready to leave at eight. The invitation implied a special form of attire and dreading what he might find, Blake reluctantly re-consulted the card. Luckily nothing formal was required – a fact for which he was extremely grateful. Black-tie affairs were part of the life he’d left behind and now that he no longer needed to attend those Embassy functions which had so bored him, he’d mothballed his dinner jacket. He’d suspected Keith of bringing one, but in an unguarded moment the man had confessed to leaving his at home. Couldn’t see the point – not just for the one event. I mean, it’s not as if we’re sitting at the captain’s table every night, it’s not that kind of a cruise.